Poker chips clicked across the polished wood of the Abattoir's long table, the sound mixing with low laughter and the soft clink of glasses. Viktor sat at the head, sleeves rolled up, a half-smile on his face as he studied his cards. Across from him Klaus leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually around Hayley's shoulders. She was grinning, belly rounded and content, eyes bright as she watched the pile of chips in the center grow.
"You're bluffing again, brother," Klaus said, tossing two chips into the pot. "I can smell it on you."
Kol snorted from the side, already down half his stack. "Please. Viktor doesn't bluff. He just waits for the rest of us to dig our own graves." He pushed a few more chips forward anyway, smirking. "I'm in. Somebody has to keep this interesting."
Freya rolled her eyes but smiled, the rare soft one that only appeared when the family was like this—together, no daggers, no running. She tapped her cards against the table. "Raise."
Elijah, ever composed, matched her without a word. Malia sat beside Viktor, legs tucked under her, studying the board with the same sharp focus she inherited from him. Qetsiyah lounged at the far end, ancient eyes amused as she sipped her wine and occasionally dropped dry commentary that made everyone laugh harder.
"I fold," Hayley declared after a moment, tossing her cards down. "I'm not risking the baby's college fund on Kol's face."
That set them off. Kol clutched his chest in mock offense. "I am wounded. Deeply. And here I thought you loved me."
"I love you," she said, "but I don't trust you with money."
Viktor chuckled, the sound genuine and deep. He hadn't felt this light in months. The ancestral well was capped, the witches quieter, the city almost… peaceful. He raised, forcing the others to decide. Klaus matched him with a grin that showed teeth. The twins locked eyes for a second—identical faces, shared history, the unspoken knowledge that this calm was hard-won.
The river came. Kol groaned and folded. Freya stayed in longer than she should have, then shook her head and tossed her cards. Elijah followed. Qetsiyah folded with a graceful shrug. Only Klaus and Viktor remained.
"Call," Klaus said, sliding the rest of his chips in.
Viktor turned his cards over. Full house. Klaus stared for half a second, then laughed, loud and free, the kind of laugh that used to be rare. "You absolute bastard."
The table erupted. Malia clapped him on the back. Kol threw a chip at Viktor's head. Even Elijah smiled. For a few precious minutes the Abattoir felt like home instead of a fortress. Cards shuffled again. More wine poured. Stories started—old ones from France, newer ones about the baby's future name, Malia teasing her father about how soft he'd gotten.
Viktor let it wash over him. This was what he had fought for. Family around a table. Laughter instead of blood. Hope instead of fear.
Then both he and Klaus turned their heads toward the entrance at the same exact moment.
The smile drained from Viktor's face like someone had flipped a switch. He stood so fast the chair scraped hard against the floor. In the next heartbeat he was across the room, one hand locked around a throat, slamming a young-looking man hard against the stone wall. The stranger's feet dangled. His eyes went wide, hands clawing uselessly at Viktor's wrist as he gasped for air.
A few steps away, two bodies materialized on the floor.
Damon. Katherine.
Lifeless. Pale. Still.
Silence hit the room like a physical blow. Hayley's hand flew to her mouth. Elijah rose slowly. Kol's magic sparked at his fingertips. Freya's face went cold. Malia was already halfway out of her chair. Qetsiyah's ancient calm cracked for the first time in centuries.
Viktor's eyes burned pure red-gold, veins dark under the skin. The power in the room thickened until the air itself felt heavy. He stared into the stranger's face with the kind of rage that had once leveled villages.
"I give you twenty seconds," he said, voice low and deadly, "to explain yourself before I rip out your heart and feed it to you."
The man choked, legs kicking. "It's not me—I swear—I was sent by Sage—to uncover a trade bazaar in New Orleans—someone's selling magical artifacts without Shield authorization—I just got into town today—I was getting a drink in a bar—and then it all just… happened. I swear. I swear!"
Viktor held him a second longer, reading every micro-expression, every heartbeat. Then he released him. The man collapsed to the floor, coughing and sucking in air.
Viktor turned to the bodies. Something inside him cracked open. Damon and Katherine had been his first. His blood. He had turned them, protected them, treated them like the children he never got to raise properly until Malia. The same fierce, bone-deep love he felt for his siblings, for his daughter, lived in those two as well. And for one night of peace, one night of poker and laughter, he had let his guard drop.
Complacency had cost him.
He looked at the stranger without turning fully. "Who did it?"
The man scrambled to his knees. "Witches. A group of them stormed the bar. The one who finished it… she was called Davina."
Viktor's jaw tightened. The name settled into the room like poison. He stared at the still forms on the floor for a long moment, then spoke without looking away.
"Malia. Call Stefan. Lexi. Andre. Kai. Daphne." His voice was quiet now, but every word carried the weight of centuries. "I am going to paint New Orleans red."
His family moved at once—Elijah stepping forward, Freya reaching for his arm, Klaus already halfway to his side. They knew that tone. They had heard it before, in darker centuries, when Viktor decided the world needed a reminder of what an Original Tribrid could do when something precious was taken from him.
They tried to stop him. Soft words. Hands on his shoulders. Reason. But they also knew the truth.
It was already too late.
Viktor was far gone.